


Size M, 100% Cotton

by Siria



Series: Nantucket AU [64]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-31
Updated: 2008-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:15:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of five t-shirts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Size M, 100% Cotton

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jenn and Cate for betaing.

**1.** John's had his ROTC t-shirt for nearly twenty years, long enough for it to have faded to a thin and fragile blue that echoes the skies over Nantucket. It's too threadbare to hold warmth any more; on cold winter nights, when he pads down to the kitchen for a glass of water, goose-bumps break out along John's arms and shiver the length of his spine, making him curse and shrug into the hoodie Rodney's left thrown on the table. By rights, it should be ripped up for cleaning rags by now—the worn lettering of _Texas A&amp;M_ used to clean the winter's dirt from the Wagoneer, the cracked Air Force logo made to wipe Cash's muddy paw-prints from chair and floor—but John can't let it go.

There are a hundred thousand memories woven into the cloth of the t-shirt that he's shrugged over his shoulders so many nights, of _good_ and _bad_ and _Afghanistan, home_ and _Rodney_; so much so that even on the nights when Rodney snags it instead of him—broad shoulders stretching out blue cotton made for a narrower frame—John twines his fingers in it as he sleeps. One finger worries at the small hole just over the left shoulder-blade, another at the sliver of pale skin between the hem of t-shirt and boxer, and it's cotton-comfort and every horizon he'd ever want his thoughts to reach for, right there beneath his touch.

**2.** Odd socks and stained t-shirts jumble together in their washing machine, whites and colours shoved in all at once with the heedless indifference of two men who had lived alone for a long time, and with all the assurance of those who had enjoyed the statistical fluke of never combining a red shirt with white underwear. No iron touches the clean clothes before they tumble back into their chest of drawers; and while a man's boxers may be his and his alone, as far as John's concerned, there's no such demarcation line when it comes to t-shirts.

The first evening John sprawls out on the couch, home from work and fresh from the shower, wearing the t-shirt which proclaims Rodney's favourite Feynman quote in blocky capitals (_Physics is like sex: sure, it may give some practical results, but that's not why we do it_), Rodney doesn't exactly look impressed. He stands in the doorway that leads into the kitchen, one sleeve of his button-down shirt smeared with tomato sauce; he raises an eyebrow at the game John's watching on tv instead of helping him make dinner, and raises the other when he realises John's dared to touch the beloved Feynman shirt.

John looks down at his chest, smirks, then looks back up at Rodney with the biggest shit-eating grin he can manage, teeth white and predatory. "Hey, Rodney," he says, waggling his eyebrows in a way that's been known to make Rodney sigh, "Wanna get theoretical?"

They leave dinner to burn on the stove.

**3.** John keeps his replica jersey sacred, reserving it for big games and Tom Brady the way some people set their Sundays aside for the Lord. Rodney squints at him when he hangs it up carefully in the closet and tells him that this is highly disturbing behaviour for a man of forty-one, and does nothing but sigh heavily when John explains all over again, tone serious and hands assertive, just how beautiful a thing a run of sixteen clear games really is.

"Yes, yes," Rodney says when John sprawls out on the bed next to him, knocking the journal from Rodney's hand and pressing his cheek into the warm curve of Rodney's neck. "You've told me oh so many times, football is a wonderful thing, rah, rah, testosterone," but it's been a long and lazy day of just them, and he doesn't sound particularly tetchy.

Rodney picks up his journal again with one hand, and lets John doze next to him for a while before his free hand comes up to play with John's hair, twisting the cowlicks into greater peaks. "I hope they win on Sunday, too," he says, a little stiffly.

The light scratch of Rodney's fingernails against his scalp makes John shiver, and he can't manage much more than an interrogatory _mmpfh_?

"Not for their sake, of course," Rodney says hurriedly, "Yours. That is..." His fingers still briefly, and John pushes up into his touch a little until Rodney resumes tracing soothing circles against his scalp. "I mean, you'd just be insufferable otherwise, wouldn't you?"

John laughs quiet and fond, uses the mouth which can never shape all the words that Rodney deserves to press a kiss against his stubbly jaw; and later, he marvels all over again at the architecture their bodies make when pressed together, legs steepled and heads bowed.

**4.** "That is never going to come out," Rodney says disapprovingly when John and Ronon clomp into the kitchen, mouths smiling and their arms and t-shirts covered in the oil of the Wagoneer's innards. John's white t-shirt—shrunken a little in the wash, its hem riding up John's belly when he tilts his head back to gulp from a bottle of water—has one smeared black handprint right in the middle of the chest, as if John were trying to feel the rhythm of his own heartbeat beneath warm cotton.

John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, "Rodney, you sound like someone's mom."

"I do not," Rodney says, chin going up instinctively while he fights the urge to push his glasses up his nose. "I sound like someone who has a basic knowledge of the hydrophobic properties of—"

"McKay," Ronon interrupts while he stoops to ruffle Cash's sun-warmed fur, "You sound like someone's mom."

"I do n—oh god," Rodney says, drooping, pen falling from suddenly limp fingers, "I do, don't I? I always thought it would be my fate to end up a mean drunk like my father, but my mother is just so much—she collected commemorative plates with kittens on them, for god's sake; please don't tell Jeannie, she'd never let me live it down."

John lets out a rusty chuckle, and presses a kiss to Rodney's hair before he heads upstairs to shower.

**5.** Rodney's cherished, awful _I'm With Genius_ t-shirt rucks up beneath John's hands. They're both panting and frantic—nerves sparking with the effects too-warm beer and so much skin after days spent apart—beneath the impact of their bodies, the old green armchair shudders and skids a little across the floorboards. Their kisses are sloppy, all hints of teeth and sly curls of tongue, small indulgences to be shared between mumbled words and the touch of fingertips that are relearning the particular contours of a much-loved face, amidst the greater luxury of not having to let go.

John could come right here, right now, in his pants; he feels just like an overly horny teenager, though this is nothing like he'd ever thought he could have when he was seventeen and miserable, and his hands are shaking.

"Yes," Rodney hisses, "God, just, please—" He twists his hips sharply, and they both topple out of the chair to land on the floor with a heavy thud.

"Ow," Rodney wheezes, shoving John's elbow out of his stomach with an air that's decidedly more aggrieved than lustful, "That was my _spleen_."

"Kiss it better?" John says slyly, ignoring Rodney's feebly batting hands so that he can straddle his thighs, feel the scratch of hair and the strength of them between his own.

"You would use just about any excuse, wouldn't you?" Rodney still sounds a little snippy, but the movements of John's hands over his body are clearly drawing his attention back to more important matters; when John rocks forward, Rodney's cock is hard against John's own, and the high bones of Rodney's cheeks are flushed.

"For you?" John says, moving so that he can drag his stubbled cheek against the curve of Rodney's belly, delighting in the shivers that calls up in Rodney's body, the way it makes his fingers twitch. His tone is as serious as if this is a question he'll have to think about, rather than one he answers every time he kisses Rodney awake in the morning. "Pretty much, yeah."


End file.
